On that first dusk of freedom, I sat down again on my little stool to organize the thoughts that were shouting. One by one, I placed my thoughts onto the prayer rope... Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us...

Voices of people, bells, and bleating could be heard from afar. A flock that had been grazing on a high ridge behind the rocks was going to settle as night fell. When later the night spread its darkness and the bells and bleating quieted down, only one voice remained to be heard, calm, a familiar sound, a lamenting song... on a Saturday night, my Vangelitsa...

Soft, gentle mourning. I did not know who was mourning, whom they were mourning... And yet, in the days of triumph, the mourning was there, in the soul of the people. As mountains, ridges, trees, and people faded into the darkness, only the mourning remained, as if it were brought by the night.

As if Thessaly, in its moments of triumph, mourned the Vangelitsas that were lost, the young women who never lived, the young men who remained in the mountains and in the shadows. As if Thessaly wanted to comfort, to cradle the eternal sleep of those who were lost so that the moment of its triumph could come.